David Lewis Paget

The Prescient Vest - Poem by David Lewis Paget

‘You’ve come to the end, it’s sad, my friendBut there’s nothing more we can do, Your kidneys have malfunctioned, andYou’re at the end of the queue.You’d best be making your Will out nowOr you may run out of time, There’s just a question of fifteen thou’You owe for our work, just sign! ’

‘I’ll not be signing my life awayJust now, though it’s almost done, I may be taking a walk somedayBut not ‘til I’ve had some fun.You say I’ve only a week or twoTo spend, and that’s at the best, I’ll cram the rest of my living inWith the help of a Prescient Vest.’

The Prescient Vest, the brainchild ofA Silicone Valley clone, It calculated the path of lifeFrom the life already known, It fed its images through a brainThat would never live to seeThe normal span of the life of manThrough some abnormality.

So Kevin fronted the InstituteAnd was strapped into a chair, Fitted with Vest and HeadpieceAnd was virtually aware, It drained the memories of his lifeThat flashed on past his sight, And stored them into a tiny fileJust less than a Gigabyte.

And then it started to calculateBeginning with his wife, It showed her having a sweet affairWith the boarder, Stanley Smythe, They both attended his funeralAnd she leant upon his arm, And held the wake with a Currant cakeAt Stanley’s father’s farm.

Then Kevin struggled within his bondsAnd tried to say, ‘Not true! ’But then his favourite daughter cameQuite suddenly into view, She stole the funeral money he’dBeen keeping in a jar, Then jumped on into his ThunderbirdAnd drove off with his car.

She let her idiot boyfriend inTo sit behind the wheel, But all he could see were dollar signsAnd a car he’d like to steal, He dropped her off at a candy shopDrove off and left his Pam, While only a half a mile awayHe ended under a tram.

Kevin suffered a minor fitAt the wreck of his pride and joy, But didn’t suffer a single qualmAt the death of the stupid boy, His job had gone to a minor clerk, Dumped records in the bin, The careful working of twenty yearsThat he’d spent compiling them.

Then Stanley got at his savings andHe frittered them away, His wife was clueless, she let him sellThe house he’d slaved to pay, The future, once he had gone was notThe thing he’d visualised, He strained and screamed at the Techs, ‘Just get this thing from off my eyes! ’

He staggered home in a mood and tookSome gas from out the car, Splashed it around the house, and tookThe cash from the funeral jar, He threw a match and it all went upThough he didn’t know or care, That his wife and Stan were up aboveWhen the flames went up the stair.

He jumped on into the ThunderbirdAnd went for a long, last ride, Along the Beachside Boulevard, And once he had stopped, he died! They’ve banned the use of the Prescient VestWith a raft of bills and laws, ‘The future needs to be locked, ’ they said, ‘For the damage it might cause! ’